How it Began
by DaughterofDionysus
Summary: We all know of The Three Musketeers, but how did they begin? Why were they chosen to become the King's elite bodyguards? Well, it all began somewhere, so shall we find out? (Rated T for mild language and no more violence than featured in the show. And I'm unsure of whether D'Artagnan will make an appearance.)
1. EVery Story has to Begin Somewhere

It no longer mattered who the man had been, what he had done. What mattered now was that he was skewered on the point of a sword, his face betraying every ounce of shock he felt as he stared up into the face of his killer. There had been a time, exactly one year ago, when he could have beaten the young man before him into the ground without even a sword to aid him. There was a time their roles would have been reversed, but not now; not today.

Treville watched all that occurred from the platform outside of his office, the man currently kneeling, dying on the ground outside was one of the Musketeers. If he was honest, he wasn't unhappy to see the man die. He had, a time ago, been a Red Guard, but due to being a favourite of the King when he had been ousted from the Cardinal's troop the Musketeers had been stuck with the man. Now, he was dying at a younger man's feet, and Treville decided it was time to intervene now that the younger man seemed to be leaving as he pulled his sword from the man's stomach.

"You!" His voice was commanding, causing the young man to halt and look up. "You are aware that duelling is illegal?"

"Is it?" It seemed the young man was merely faking his confusion, as a pose to being truly ignorant of the law. "Well, that's very inconvenient. I rather wish someone had informed me of that before I came in here, and announced I was to duel that man." The young man offered Treville a ready grin, full of mischief and the surety of invincibility that came with young age, though there was something different about his. The boy's ebony eyes held an odd darkness that did no befit his age.

"I'm sure you are well aware of the fact, and also that it will lead to you being hanged." Treville said, his face stony as he watched the boy carefully for his reaction. It was well hidden, a mask fell around the boy's face as he met Treville's gaze steadily.

"Are you sure there is not some other alternative?" He asked calmly, he evidently knew that if Treville did intend to have him hanged, he would have had a couple of Musketeers drag him away to the dungeons by now.

"There is, perhaps, one." Treville said slowly, as though he were unwillingly considering it. "You have some skill with a blade, boy." That was an understatement, the duel had been over so quickly that Treville's hadn't realised there'd been anything amiss until a cry arose from the Musketeers in the yard. Even if the man hadn't been one of the finest Musketeers by a long shot, it was still incredible that such a young man had managed to kill him with such apparent ease. "And I take it you know how to use that pistol?" He continued, gesturing to the decorated pistol holstered at the boy's hip.

"Well now, there wouldn't be much point in my carrying it if I couldn't use it, would there?" The boy answered, carefree grin having returned to his face.

"Then, in exchange for your freedom, you can have the option of becoming a King's Musketeer." Treville said, then added. "Of course, I cannot guarantee when your commission will be granted, nor whether you shall even receive one, but I suspect it would be better than the alternative."

The boy took his time to mull over his options, before nodding slowly and grinning wolfishly at Treville. "I accept your offer, good sir." He said, and bowed with a flourish.

* * *

Later, in Treville's office, the young man was standing in front of his desk, the unruly curls of his chocolate brown hair falling in his face as he stood impatiently, waiting for Treville to complete the paperwork.

"Name?"  
"Aramis." Was the short reply, causing Treville to glance up and raise an eyebrow.

"I need your full name." He said, waiting patiently as the boy seemed to struggle with the request.

"René Aramis." Aramis said finally, running his free hand through his dark curls in a way that betrayed nerves, the other tapping his hat against his leg.

Treville wrote it down, then said: "and your age?"  
"Twenty-two."

"Twenty-two... That's rather a young age, isn't it?" Treville asked.

"Yes... sir." Aramis said, nodding. "That's not a problem?"

"Well..." Technically, it wasn't, the Musketeers had no clear guidelines about age limits, and the boy had certainly shown himself to be capable enough.

"No, no." Treville said finally, adding that to the paper. That was really all the official information Treville needed, but he proceeded with his usual questions anyway. "What can you do, Aramis?"  
"Sir?" Aramis asked hesitantly, not quite understanding.

"Any extra abilities? You don't just become a Musketeer, and in the mean time we will need other ways to keep you occupied." Treville explained, "anyway, it is useful for any, er, unique missions."

"Ah," Aramis tugged at his curls again. "Well, I can speak Spanish-"  
"Fluently?" Treville cut in, his eyebrow raised once more.

"Yes... sir." Aramis nodded, "and Latin, some Greek, a little English." He rubbed his temple with a thumb, "I can sew, along with some physician work. And, of course, I can read and write. Also ride a horse."

"You're a doctor?" Treville asked, this boy was becoming more interesting by the second.  
Aramis nodded, "of a little skill." He said, and it was hard to tell whether he spoke of modesty or nervousness.

"Well, we do already have a doctor, but it always helps to have another." Treville said with a small smile, "and no doubt your language skills will be of some use in future." Treville stood from his seat, taking one more look at the young man stood in front of his before reaching a decision.

Aramis was perhaps a little taller than average height, and he was certainly well muscled; the kind of muscles grown from hard labour, endured every day for a long period of time. He held himself with a steady assurance, probably developed from a long held confidence in his own abilities. Though, with all his attributes that hinted at maturity, his tender age was betrayed by his clean shaven face which showed young and angled (though undeniably handsome) features.

"Very well," Treville said, "welcome, to the Musketeers, but before you start, get a haircut." He added with a grin, gesturing to Aramis' hair, which just brushed his shoulders.

* * *

That was certainly not how Aramis had planned on this day going, when he had set out from his rooms that morning he had known he would either end up dying; but for the right reasons, or living; but as a hunted man. Aramis had never once entertained the idea of becoming a Musketeer, not even an ordinary soldier, especially not within the few months he had spent with the clergy and certainly not in all the years spent being prepared for the life of a monk.

As he left the captain's office, he wondered how his life would proceed now, Aramis had spent the last year training in the art of fencing each day in order to get his revenge on the man who had mistreated him. It had been at a time when Aramis was still part of the clergy, and he had been spending time in the house of a certain young woman, apparently in some relation to the Cardinal. That particular Red Guard had found him in the young woman's bedroom and had taken him out, onto the street and beaten him in front of a cheering crowd, on that day he had sworn he would have his revenge. Because of that Red Guard, Aramis had been forced to leave the clergy; his entire life had been tipped upside down, again, and the only thought that forced Aramis to wake up in the morning was that he would take from the Red Guard what he had so easily and mercilessly taken from him.

It did not take long for Aramis to become one of the regiment, he joked easily with his brothers in arms, proved his loyalty more times than some of the most veteran Musketeers, and never turned a man away when in need of stitches, whether it was for a shirt or wound. And it wasn't just the men that took a liking to him, Aramis quickly aquired a reputation amongst the women of Paris; especially those of high nobility and power. Though, this did cause a few problems as most of these women were married. Close as he was with most of the regiment, save those jealous of his natural skill with guns and the ladies, his closest friend was certainly Marsac and the two were all but inseparable over the growing weeks and months that Aramis spent with the Musketeers.

Sooner than Treville could have predicted, the young man was fully commissioned into the Musketeers for saving the lives of three other Musketeers, with great risk to his own, from a group of hostile Spaniards while delivering a powerful nobleman to Paris. Treville believed that Aramis would have gained commission sooner, had he sent the young man out on more missions more often, but he was still at a relatively young age and though already a good soldier, still required training.

* * *

A year passed and from the look of Aramis, you would have thought he had chosen to become a Musketeer, rather than being all but forced into it, because of how well the job seemed to fit him. He had grown, in more ways than one. Now, at twenty-three, he had developed yet more, leaner muscles and still held himself with the same, steady assurance, but now from confidence in those that surrounded him instead of relying purely on his self. His skills with weapons and in horse riding had also improved. In his spare time, he read and practised his languages; not wanting to allow such skills to slip. Aramis had also grown a beard and moustache, thanks to the constant teasing of the regiment that mostly seemed to suggest he couldn't, he had also had his hair cut to a better length and his curls now ended around his ears.  
"Aramis!" A Musketeer, who Aramis recognised as Baudin, jogged down the steps from Treville's office towards him.

"Captain Treville wants to talk to you."  
Aramis groaned as he stood from the table where he'd been cleaning his musket; glad of the brief respite from the erratic autumn rain. Treville probably wanted him to lead something, possibly a training exercise, and he really didn't want to do that; Aramis didn't exactly have a problem with leading per se, he just thought there were others who were more suited to the job. With a sigh, Aramis nodded to Baudin and grabbed his rather battered brown hat then headed up the steps, taking them two at a time.  
"I rather think Chevalier would be good on this one, sir." Aramis informed the captain as he sauntered into his office.  
"What?" Treville frowned at Aramis from where he sat behind his desk. "What are you talking about?"  
"You want me to lead some kind of training exercise, don't you?" Aramis asked uncertainly, removing his hat from his head and tapping it against his head.  
"No. Whatever gave you that idea?" Treville asked, shaking his head at the young man. "I'm asking you to pay a visit to the palace and enquire as to how many guards they require for the King's dinner next week."  
"Ah," Aramis nodded, "of course, sir." He grinned, giving a flamboyant bow before turning and striding out of the room.

The ride to the palace was short, the conversation about the guards needed for the dinner shorter still, as such it was barely dusk as Aramis rode back through the streets of Paris to the garrison. Just as he was cantering through the streets, he heard a commotion in front of him, Aramis slowed his horse to a walk and squinted through the dusk and light drizzle of rain. By a tavern, and not a particularly respectable one, he noted, a fight seemed to have broken out. Now, technically Aramis was off duty, but through the weather he could make out the uniform of the Red Guard, and any opportunity to ruin their fun was welcome to the Musketeer.  
"Gentlemen!" He called, dismounting from his horse and summoning a jovial grin. "What on earth is all this fuss about?"  
" 'E cheated at cards!" One member of the Red Guard cried, pointing wildly and best he could at the man who currently had him in a headlock.  
"That hurt," the large man growled, shaking the man.  
As Aramis neared the group, he could make out two or three men (they were all bundled on top of each other) lying in a heap on the ground, the Red Guard in the large man's grip appeared to be the one with the least problems.  
"And that's also slander," the Musketeer added as he came to a halt a few feet away from the large man.  
"He attacked us!" The Red Guard squeaked.  
"No no no no no." Aramis said with a frown, almost tutting at the Red Guard. "One man attacking four... is it?- Four Red Guards just doesn't sound right. What I think is far more likely is that you four did in fact lose, very badly, at a game of cards, then attempted to slander this man, and when that didn't work out; lost your tempers and attacked him. I know which way the judge would see it, at least. Especially with the reputation that the Red Guard has been gathering recently."  
It was only now that the man seemed to realise Aramis was a Musketeer, and his face twisted into a sneer. "Musketeer scum..."  
Th large man, who had been silently watching the proceedings, apparently decided now was the time to do something. His fist connected with the Red Guard's face and the man crumpled to the ground, out cold.  
Aramis raised his eyebrows and looked at the large man, who bared his teeth at him in a wolfish grin. "Got tired of his talking." He said by way of an explanation.  
"I see," Aramis said, eyes sweeping once more over the now four collapsed bodies in the street. "And did you deal with all of them?" He asked.  
The large man paused for a moment before answering, "yeah, but you were right, they started it."  
Aramis nodded thoughtfully, "that's quite impressive." He said finally, looking to the large man, who shrugged.  
"Thanks. And, uh, thanks for not arresting me, I guess. 'M name's Porthos." Porthos said, holding out a hand.  
"Aramis," said he, taking the other man's hand. His grip was tight and the dark skin of his hand calloused and rough.  
"You know," he said casually, releasing his grip. "Skills like that could get you a place in the Musketeers."  
Porthos snorted and shook his head, "that's a nice story, maybe something out of a fairytale. But real life doesn't work that way."  
Aramis shrugged lightly, "suit yourself." He said, lifting his hat to Porthos before turning and walking back to his horse; he still had quite a way to ride before he returned even to the garrison.


	2. Like a Fairytale

"Up up up! Aramis! Rouse yourself!"  
Aramis smiled slightly as he cracked his eyes open, he lay on his bed; clothed only by a loose shirt and trousers, and was still a little tired from the previous evening's fiasco.

"Aramis! The King's Musketeers will not wait for you if you're late!" That would be the stable-boy, Curtis, a meek-looking boy with a surprisingly loud voice.

"I'm getting up!" He called back to him, Curtis' only reply was to grumble about how he'd missed his chance at breakfast because he'd slept so late. Aramis glanced at the sky outside his open window, it couldn't be past nine.

After splashing water over his body to qualify as a wash; Aramis dressed; gathered his sword, pistol and dagger; grabbed his trusty hat and jogged to the main yard, however, he was still late. The captain was indeed angry at Aramis for being late, and when he protested that it was the captain who had sent him to the palace in the first place the previous night, and that he'd broken up a fight on his way back (the story of which may have been slightly embellished) Treville merely fixed him with a look and told him to go and clean the tack room.

It was ridiculous, Aramis thought; having discarded his leather long coat and hat as he scrubbed at a saddle, that he should be given this punishment above all others. Cleaning the tack room was the kind of job given to new recruits who had started taking themselves too seriously, not to commissioned Musketeers with a_ year's_ experience under their belt who had been late _once _in the past month, and Aramis knew there was others in the regiment who were late more regularly than he was. By the time he had finished, he was in an undeniably bad mood, and this was only encouraged when he discovered _he _had been selected as one of the Musketeers to attend the King's dinner. It was going to be a long week.

* * *

The dinner lasted longer than Aramis was happy with, though he had at least been able to have a few drinks, grab some nice food and dance with a particularly _friendly _lady. It was past midnight by the time the Musketeer was stumbling homewards, a hand on his sword at all times; no doubt there were many footpads and pickpockets lurking in the shadows of Paris' alleys. Just as Aramis thought this, a group of men, all dressed in ragged clothing and clutching at rusted; yet undoubtedly sharp, daggers and knives and they gathered around Aramis, sneering at him and smirking at each other.

"Well, what do we have 'ere, boys?" One man, who appeared to be the leader, said, his lip curling as he looked at Aramis. "A Musketeer, out after dark and in our part of the city."

Aramis drew his sword, albeit a little clumsily, and quickly scanned the group, brilliant: six of them and one of him. Though it was true he was better trained and generally stronger than then the lean, thin thieves, but they had the advantages of numbers and not being drunk. However, Aramis wouldn't go down without a fight, he thought about grabbing his pistol, but it would take too long to load and there was no guarantee he would hit any of them anyway. Obviously tired of waiting for Aramis to make his drunken assessment, one of the footpads lunged forward, waving his knife wildly at the Musketeer and he managed to parry the blade away, only to have another thief come up behind him.

"Hey!" There was a shout behind Aramis, his first hopeful thought was that it was a fellow Musketeer, his second, not-so-hopeful thought was that it was a Red Guard; in which case he was probably screwed. As it turned out, it was neither.

"P-Porthos?" The leader stammered, his widening as he recognised the man who was striding toward them. "We're just working!" He said defensively.

"Not this one, Warren." Said the deep voice, that Aramis did now recognise as Porthos. "Helped me out in what coulda been a tight spot."  
"Sorry, Porthos." Warren said quickly, "I-I guess we'll get going." He added, gesturing swiftly to the rest of the group and they receded into the shadows.

"You alright?" Porthos asked, coming into Aramis' shaky line of sight as he returned his sword to its scabbard.

Aramis nodded, "my thanks." He said with a smile, "it seems we are doomed to run into each other when being set upon by hostiles."

Porthos bared his teeth in a grin, "seems so. You alright to get home?"  
"I should think so," Aramis said with a nod, glancing down the street towards the garrison. "Well, I've said it before, but you would make a good Musketeer." He added over his shoulder as he continued down the street.

* * *

The next morning, feeling perhaps a little worse for wear, but better than he could have been, Aramis rapped on the door to Treville's office.

"Enter."

The grinning Musketeer stepped into the office to find the captain sitting at his desk, hunched over yet more paperwork. "You need to get out more, sir." Aramis said easily. "All this paperwork will take the soldier out of you." He added, his tone still respectful as he completely aware it wasn't true.

"What do you want, Aramis?" Treville asked, a small smile tugging on his lips which he managed to resist.

"I have an idea for a new Musketeer, sir." He said, removing his hat from his head and tapping it against his leg.

"Really?" Treville leaned back in his chair, raising an eyebrow at Aramis in a way that was very familiar. "What idea is this?"

"There's this man... Porthos, I've run into a few times of late, and he's demonstrated exceptional brawling skills and surprising loyalty." Aramis began, watching the captain carefully for his reaction.

"I see... And it is purely from these few experiences that you believe this Porthos to be Musketeer material?" Treville asked.

Aramis nodded, tugged at his hair, then added: "and he may have saved my life last night."  
The captain hummed and nodded slowly, "do you know where he can be found?"  
"I believe he resides somewhere in the Court of Miracles." Aramis said, having done a little poking around before coming to see Treville.

"A thief, Aramis?" Treville asked, his face betraying momentary surprise. "That is brash, even for you."  
"An honourable thief," Aramis insisted. "He saved my life when he could have merely continued as he was."

"An honourable thief..." Treville repeated, his voice a murmur as he studied the Musketeer standing in front of him closely. "Very well, Aramis." He said after a minute's silent debate. "I'll look into it, but I can't promise you anything."  
"Thank you, sir." Aramis said, grinning cheerfully at the captain and, after giving a quick bow, exiting the office.

Aramis spent the day with Marsac, the two practised their swordplay, their aim and even tried a bit of hand-to-hand; something Marsac was rather skilled at. Morning soon turned to afternoon and after a relatively uneventful day, Aramis headed back to his room, determined to arrive on time the next.

* * *

Morning rolled around and found Aramis in the yard of the garrison, musket in hand and, having set up a target, refining his aim in the quiet of the early morning. His peace was disturbed, however, as a man strode into the yard.

"I've been summoned," a familiar, deep voice said drily, "to see Captain Treville."  
Aramis turned and got his first proper look at Porthos, due to the fact that their previous encounters had been at night in shadowy places and they'd both been rather distracted by their opponents. The man was tall, definitely reaching six feet and perhaps more, his muscles were bulky, even in the loose shirt he wore, and there was a golden hoop in his left ear. All of his clothes appeared old, and as though they had been stitched up over and over again, though that was not surprising to Aramis; considering Porthos' background. He didn't appear to be carrying any weapons, though the Musketeer supposed that Porthos didn't really need any due to his skill in brawling, and he could have easily hidden a few knives.

"Ah, good!" Aramis declared, and walked over to Porthos, clapping him on the shoulder. "Then follow me." He jogged up the steps to Treville's office, then knocked on the door quickly.

"Enter."  
Aramis did as ordered, glancing behind him to check that Porthos was still following him before stepping into the office.

"Porthos here to see you, sir." Aramis announced, nodding to Treville by way of thanks.

"Yes, thank you, Aramis." Treville said, looking up at Porthos and indicating that Aramis should leave.

"I, ah, I'll leave you to it." Aramis said, flashing Porthos a grin before and giving Treville a small bow before hurrying out of the office.

* * *

The young Musketeer left him and the captain alone, Porthos stood uneasily in the office, letting his arms hang loose and ready by his body as he looked at the captain; still unsure of why he'd been asked to come to the garrison in the first place.

"I'll get straight to the point," Captain Treville said, lacing his fingers together on top of his desk, "you don't seem to be the kind of man that would appreciate me dancing around the matter. You've been asked to come here because I believe you could have the ability to become a Musketeer."  
Porthos stared incredulously at the captain, he had thought maybe he'd been asked to come to the garrison because he had stolen something of a Musketeer's (though now he thought about it, that request probably wouldn't have been quite so civilised). It had never once crossed his mind that he would be given the opportunity to become a Musketeer.

"Why?" He asked, eyes narrowed.

"Someone recommended we take a look into you," Captain Treville said. "I did, and decided you have the basic skills required to become a Musketeer. Before you make any decisions though, you should know that there is no guarantee you will become a Musketeer immediately, it will take time for you to receive your commission."

Mind still whirling from even the prospect of getting away from the Court of Miracles, Porthos had to take a minute to gather himself together.

"I'm gonna need to think about this." He said gruffly, and was surprised when Captain Treville nodded with what appeared to be understanding.

"Take a week," he said, "and return to me with your decision then."

And apparently then Porthos was dismissed, as the captain returned to his paperwork and acted as though he wasn't even in the room.

* * *

The walk back to the Court of Miracles was a long one, Porthos knew what decision he was going to make long before the end of the week, what made it hard to follow through was Charon and Flea. When he told Charon that he planned on leaving to become a Musketeer, he was angry, at first.

"So you're leaving us?!"  
"No... Charon, it's not like that-"  
"Oh really? Well, I don't see it being any other way!" His friend's face was screwed up in anger, his fists clenched at his side as he glared up at Porthos.

"I don't... belong here, Charon." Porthos said, trying to keep his tone gentle; this was not how he wanted them to part.

"We're brothers, Porthos. You can't just give up on that! We've been running the streets since we could walk!" Charon said, his voice cracking slightly as he grew desperate.

"And we'll always be brothers, you know that, Charon. But I _need _to do this. Please, understand."  
Charon breathed hard and fast for a few seconds, as though he had just run away from the Cardinal's Red Guard, clenching and unclenching his fists; for a moment Porthos thought he was going to go for the knife he wore at his belt.

"Alright..." Charon said slowly, swallowing thickly. "But you have to come and see us still, don't you _dare _forget about us."

Porthos' face broke into a relieved grin, "thank you, Charon. And I won't, you know I won't."  
His friend nodded, though Porthos suspected it was more out of reflex than anything else. "Have you told Flea yet?"  
"No," Porthos shook his head, brow furrowed. "I'm still trying to work out how, I don't want her to kill me." He added with a weak grin.

Telling Flea was worse than telling Charon, and Porthos hadn't thought that was possible.

"Flea, I'm leaving... to become a Musketeer." He said nervously.

Her only reaction was to sit on the bed she'd been standing next to, her face oddly calm as she breathed out a soft "oh."  
"I don't belong here, Flea, and I think you know that." Porthos said, sitting down next to her, trying to take her hands, but she moved them just out of reach.

"No, I know, Porthos." Flea said, not looking at him, and her voice still that soft, calm and absolutely heart-breaking tone.

"You could come with me, we could leave here together. I could make you into a lady." He said, he already knew what her answer would be, but he had to try.

"No, Porthos." Finally, she looked at him. Her aquamarine blue eyes met his obsidian ones. "I'm meant to be here, always. It's my home."  
"It's my home too," Porthos said quickly, desperate for her to know how much she meant to him, how much they _all_ meant to him.

Flea shook her head slightly, but held his gaze. "Maybe once, a long time ago. But now, we're set on different paths, you and me."  
"I'll send letters," he said. "I won't forget you." He added.

"I know you won't," she said, and suddenly lost the sad soft tone and was Flea again. "Anyway, how do you know you'll learn how to write?"

* * *

"Name?"  
He was back in Treville's office, exactly one week later. He'd packed the few possessions he'd thought he might need, and left the rest behind; the Court would need it more than him now anyway.

"Porthos... Porthos du Vallon." He said, finding a strange new confidence along with his new name.

The captain nodded, "age?"  
"I... uh," Porthos thought for a moment, he knew his age roughly. "Twenty-five."  
"Mhm," Treville wrote it down, then looked to Porthos. "I hear you're quite the brawler."  
Porthos nodded hesitantly, "yes... sir."  
"Good, you'll be a help, I think everyone's a bit out of practice with brawling." The captain said, "I'm going to assign one of my Musketeers to show you the ropes. I think you'll get along well, mind you, you're going to have to get along with everyone in the regiment, these men are your brothers now."  
The would-be Musketeer smirked a little as he followed his new captain out of his office, he knew how the rules of brotherhood worked very well. It turned out his mentor, that seemed to be the best name for it, was someone he was already aquainted with- though he was unsure of whether the captain knew that.

"Aramis! You'll be showing Porthos how things work around here." Treville announced as he stepped into the yard, and Aramis broke away from the large group of Musketeers he'd been talking with and walked over to the captain.

"I see, pleasure to finally meet you formally, Porthos." He said with a grin, even giving a small bow. "Welcome to the King's Musketeers, finest regiment in the whole of France."

Aramis' cheeriness was infectious, and Porthos found himself grinning back despite himself, maybe; even after leaving Flea and Charon, he could find family again here.

* * *

The months passed quickly for Porthos, and he found himself settling to Musketeer life well. Having sold all the stolen trinkets and items that he had brought with him, he had gained a good amount of money. With the money he bought himself a proper sword, a _schianova_, a broadsword of Italian design and much larger than most of the regiment's; including Aramis' trusty rapier. Porthos also bought himself some new clothes, some more fitting to the life he now led.

Over the months spent with the regiment, Porthos learned to ride a horse, shoot a pistol and musket, use a sword as more than just a hacking tool, and to read and write. For all the improvements he made and all that he learned though, Porthos still wasn't quite welcome within the regiment. It seemed the men almost feared him, his skin colour and past combined were more than any man within the Musketeers had probably thought they would ever deal with in their lives. He did have some friends, however, Aramis was one of them, the two had grown extraordinarily close in a relatively short amount of time, and this certainly helped boost Porthos' reputation within the regiment, because the more time Porthos spent the with Aramis, the more time he spent with Marsac. The two men were possibly the most popular in the whole of the Musketeers and it seemed they sang his praises whenever possible, soon enough Musketeers started asking Porthos if he would show them some brawling moves, or whether he would teach them a new knife-throwing technique. As time went on and another few weeks passed, Porthos finally felt fully accepted into the Musketeer brotherhood.

One day, after having been beaten by miles by Aramis with muskets and pistols, and beaten fairly in swordplay, Porthos had an idea.

"I can't help but notice that you've not including any brawling in your training with me," he said with a wicked grin.

"That, my dear friend, is because _I _am training _you_, not the other way around." Aramis said with a laugh as he slid his rapier back into its scabbard.

"Hardly seems fair, c'mon, it won't take long." Porthos urged.

Aramis raised his eyebrows at his friend, "why so eager, Porthos?"

"Why so scared, Aramis?" Porthos taunted. Now, usually Aramis wouldn't fall victim to such an obvious taunt, but they day had been long and other Musketeers were starting to take notice of their conversation.

"Go on, Aramis!" One called.

"Yeah, beat him into the ground, Porthos!" Another shouted with a laugh.

"We've got an audience now," Porthos said with a grin at Aramis. "It would be rude to let them down."  
His friend sighed heavily and shot him a dirty look, "fine, fine! I shall stoop to your lowly level, and I'll fight you." Aramis said, shrugging off his long coat and draping it over a free table. Porthos chuckled and slapped him on the back, taking off his own leather jacket.

The two unloaded their armoury of weapons onto the table and, with reverential care, Aramis placed his battered brown hat on top of his pile.

"Anyone touches this," he warned, "_anyone, _and I'll blow their brains out."

"Stop stalling," Porthos called from the middle of the yard.

Aramis gave one last warning look before walking to the centre of the yard, standing opposite Porthos.

"Don't worry," Porthos smirked. "I'll go easy on you."

It didn't look like it. He feinted to left, as if to punch Aramis in the shoulder, then dropped low and drove a fist into his friend's stomach.

"Oof," Aramis staggered back, only to have the front of his shirt grabbed and yanked forwards whilst his legs were kicked out from underneath him. He landed on the ground, blinking dust out of his eyes and letting out a low groan.

"Aramis," Porthos said, shaking his head and tutting at his friend. "I'm embarrassed _for _you." He said, grinning wolfishly at his friend while holding out a hand.

Aramis reached out and took it, was lifted halfway off the ground before being dropped back down again; which was met with a chorus of laughter from the surrounding Musketeers.

"That was..." Aramis paused to regain his breath as he stumbled upright, "a little unnecessary... don't you think?" He asked, in between gasping in air.

"I think you need to get some more practice in," Porthos teased good-naturedly, steering his friend back towards their possessions.

"I think you're getting ahead of yourself." Aramis countered, "I'm still the mentor here."


	3. The Musketeer Who Was a Thief

Another few months passed and soon spring arrived, it found Porthos, Aramis, Marsac and Baudin on a country track, delivering a small caravan full of gifts to noble friend of the King. The air was crisp and sharp, the sun was shining but no real warmth reached the four men as they rode.

"I'm going to scout out behind us," Aramis announced and, after receiving a nod from Marsac, he turned his horse about and cantered back down the track.

Porthos watched his friend's receding figure for a moment before facing forwards again, "he's easily bored, isn't he?" He said to Marsac with a smile.

"Yes, give him a musket and he'll lie on the dirt covered ground without complaint for as long as you like, try to get him to spend more than two peaceful days in the country, however, and he acts like a caged animal." Marsac said with a small laugh.

"How much longer is it?" Porthos asked, "out of interest."  
"About another day, maybe a little longer." Baudin chimed in helpfully, "as long as we don't come across any surprise delays."  
Porthos nodded his thanks to the younger man, he was a gentle-looking fellow; yet surprisingly cold when it came to wielding a weapon, and a fully commissioned Musketeer. Unlike Porthos. He was beginning to wonder if he would ever receive his commission, he'd been with the Musketeers for almost six months and it still seemed there was no commission in sight for him. With a small sigh, Porthos turned his thoughts away from his negative thoughts and returned to the task at hand; there would be plenty of time for moping when sat in the dark corner of a tavern back in Paris. For now, he tried to appreciate what it was like to be in the country, before he'd joined the Musketeers Porthos had never left Paris, the whole experience was still relatively new to him and he always tried to make the most of it.

* * *

When, in half an hour, Aramis hadn't returned, Porthos was beginning to get a bit worried. "Shouldn't we be looking for him?" He asked Marsac, who, in Aramis' absence, seemed to be their leader.

"I don't think so, not yet at least," Marsac replied. "Aramis can look after himself; he's probably just going a bit over the top in his scouting, you know how he is."

Porthos nodded in agreement, Aramis did sometimes get a bit too invested in their missions, Marsac was probably right; Aramis would be back soon.

* * *

However, another half hour passed and Aramis still hadn't returned, the other three had set up a small camp and had gathered around a fire as dark began to set in.

"I'm gonna go after him," Porthos said, standing up and grabbing his jacket.

"We should all go," Marsac said, beginning to move.

Porthos shook his head, "no, you and Baudin need to deliver the gifts, they need to be delivered by commissioned Musketeers. I'll go and find Aramis," he said, strapping on his _schianova._ He didn't look happy with it, but Marsac had to admit there was logic in what Porthos had said.

"I suppose," he said reluctantly. "But don't take any stupid risks, Aramis will kill _me _if you get killed." Marsac said with a small grin.

"And we wouldn't want that to happen," Porthos said with a smirk, mounting his horse and giving a mock salute to the other two, before riding back down the rough track.

After following the track to where Aramis had turned back, Porthos kept an eye of the tracks of the horses' hooves. Four were heading towards the camp, along with wheel tracks, and one lot heading back; which was Aramis. It remained that way for a while, until another two tracks appeared; and they hadn't been there when the Musketeers had first ridden out. Porthos frowned; he didn't like the way this appeared to be going, and it only got worse. Porthos kept following the track, and then there was a massive disturbance on the soil of the track, as though something had fallen onto it. The to-be Musketeer leapt off his horse and crouched by the disturbance, he was relieved the find there was no blood, but he noticed this was where one set of tracks ended. He stood and looked around, looking for any signs or clues that might help him locate Aramis, there was a faint trail from the disturbance, as though something (or someone) had been dragged off of the track and into the grass and woods beyond.

Leaving his horse where it was (it was a trained Musketeer's horse, it wouldn't leave the area Porthos left it in) Porthos followed the trail, he didn't want to take the horse because it would make him too easy to hear or see. The trail continued into the grass, as some of it was a little flattened, so Porthos managed to follow it without much difficulty; his eyes constantly switching from checking to trail to scanning the area around him in case of an ambush.

After another ten minutes or so of walking, an old, derelict barn came into view. Outside of it stood two men, neither of them Aramis, wearing nondescript clothes and hats that covered their faces. As Porthos drew closer, keeping low in the long grass, their voices carried over the wind towards him, they were talking in a language unknown to him. Deciding not to bother with the men if he could help it, Porthos decided to check around the back of the barn, even if there wasn't a door, it probably wouldn't be too hard to break in somehow. At the back of the barn was a low window, the tall man easily hauled himself up and over the rotting ledge and into the dark barn, with the only sunlight filtering in from the boards on the roof and through the window. Against a wall, his hands and feet tied, was Aramis. His head was hanging forward and his entire body looked limp.

"Aramis!" Porthos hissed as he ran over to his friend. "Aramis, are you alright?"  
There was no reply from the other Musketeer, and as Porthos knelt in front of Aramis he saw he was unconscious, there was a large bruise on his forehead with a trickle of blood running from it. Porthos swore under his breath, shot a furtive glance to the door and began to slice through the ropes binding Aramis with a boot knife. With a small grunt he hefted his friend up and, tugging Aramis' arm over his shoulders, shouldered his weight.

"Porthos...?" Aramis murmured weakly, his eyes cracking open.

"It's me," Porthos replied, his voice low. "We've got to get out of here, can you walk?"  
Aramis took a long moment to think, before shaking his head, it seemed even that small movement caused him a small degree of pain.

"Alright then," Porthos muttered, coming to a decision. "I'm going to sit you back down against this wall, and then I'll be right back for you. Sound good?" He asked as he gently set his friend back to the floor.

"Wait," Aramis grabbed feebly at Porthos' sleeve. "What're you going to do?" He asked, his words slurring together slightly as he squinted at Porthos.

"Just clear the way out," Porthos said with a grin, removing Aramis' hand and striding to the doors.

He threw them open and the two men outside yelped in surprise.

"Quién eres tú? Cómo llegó ahí?" One of the men demanded, Porthos suspected he they might be Spanish. For a moment he pondered why some Spaniards would have kidnapped a Musketeer, France wasn't at war with Spain, it made little sense. However, he quickly pushed the thoughts aside as he focused on the more immediate problem. Both men were going for their swords.

Porthos drew his _schianova _and grinned, "who's first?" He asked, he doubted the men would understand French, but they appeared to grasp the meaning of his words as the man on the left started forwards.

He was quick and small, but Porthos easily knocked his sword from his hand and then delivered a blow to his jaw that would leave him with a nasty headache when he woke. The second man appeared more wary, having seen his companion so easily dealt with. He and Porthos circled each other at first, as they both judged the other, Porthos, having grown bored, leapt forward; hoping to take the Spaniard by surprise. The man dodged to the right, having seen there would have been no way to successfully block Porthos' attack. Porthos attacked again, the clanging of metal on metal could be heard for miles in the quiet French countryside as the two men matched blows, eventually, Porthos decided the fight needed to be sped up. Feinting at the man's shoulder, so that his guard was raised, he then swept out with his leg at the man's legs, sending him crashing to the dusty ground.

"It's a good thing I need to know why you're here," Porthos growled, placing his sword at the man's neck. "Otherwise I would kill you for hurting my friend." Quickly, with brutal force, he switched his grip on the sword so that he could use the hilt to knock the man out.

* * *

"Five Spaniards!" Aramis declared, "and he beat them all without so much as breaking a sweat."  
The whole regiment had gathered in the training yard of the garrison, everyone gripping a pint of ale. After Porthos had rendered the Spaniards no longer a threat, he had fetched Aramis and they had ridden back to Marsac and Baudin. From there Aramis had shaken off his concussion and they had sent Marsac and Baudin to finish the mission while Porthos and Aramis took the Spaniards back to Paris for questioning. It had turned out they were Spanish fanatics of a kind, seemingly fixated on a war with France, their plan had been kill off as many Musketeer's as they could, seeing as the King would not stand for such things happening to his favourite regiment, and they may well have completed their goal. It turned out there was more of the group than just the two Aramis and Porthos had encountered. The group had been dealt with ruthlessly and efficiently by the Cardinal from that point on.

Then, for commendable loyalty to a comrade and being key in uncovering a plot effectively against the King, Porthos had recieved his commission. This was the celebration for his commission, and Aramis was retelling the story of why Porthos had obtained his commission, though he may have been slightly exaggerating it.

* * *

The celebration continued long into the night, and it was past midnight by the time Aramis and Porthos were heading to their rooms.

"You never told me," Porthos said just as Aramis was about to enter his room. "What happened with the Spaniards?"  
"We talked," Aramis said, running a hand through his hair and squeezing his eyes shut as he leaned against the doorframe for balance; they had all drunk a lot.

Porthos' brow furrowed, "how? Did they speak French?"  
Aramis shook his head, "no. We talked in Spanish?"  
"You know Spanish?" Porthos asked, "how?"  
"My mother's Spanish," Aramis explained. "But my father was French, my brothers and I were brought up with both languages."

Porthos nodded and the two men said their good nights, it wasn't until the morning, in the midst of a terrible hangover, that Porthos thought again about Aramis' wording the previous night.

* * *

**First of all, thank you to the very kind Guest and roxtonissexy to alerting me to the fact that somehow FanFiction managed to muck up the formatting of the first two chapters, I wouldn't have noticed otherwise!  
Hope you guys enjoy this chapter, a bit short I know, but next chapter has Athos, I hope that makes up for it!  
More apologies for how long this update took, I've had exams for the past few weeks and it's been impossible to write anything with revision.** **Jasperslittlesister- Thank you! It's always been something I found interesting, and I have too many headcanons about this not to write anything!  
See Me As I Am 101- Am I sensing some Porthos love there? ;) I totally agree with you, hopefully this chapter gives you a little of what you want! I'mplanning on having another scene with all three of the Musketeers where we get to show off each of their skills, plenty of love and admiration to go around!**


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